Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (2)

But what he’s doing to me isn’t ideological—it’s biological. It’s bypassing every part of my brain that knows how to think. Talking straight to the heat low in my belly.

It’s strangely thrilling. Oddly unsettling.

And very, very annoying.

“Cami?”

I turn to Reggie. I don’t like the fact that he’s used the pet name my sister and her family call me by. It feels way too intimate and familiar coming from him. But I’m too focused on finishing this dinner as quickly as possible to bother offering a correction.

“Sorry. What was that again?”

He sets his fork down with an irritated clank. “Is something distracting you?” he asks. “It’s pretty rude to ignore your date, you know.”

“No, sorry, nothing,” I reply quickly. “Just… tired.”

“Oh?”

“I had a couple of job interviews I was preparing for.” Which is not exactly a lie. “And I was up late last night.” Also not exactly a lie. Although “late” in this instance just means “late for me,” which means 9:05 instead of 9:00 on the dot.

“Job interviews, huh?” he asks. “Cool. Anyway, like I was saying, I…”

I retreat beneath the surface of a perpetual smile-and-nod. “Putting my screensaver on,” as Brianna calls it. It’s easier that way, and Reggie doesn’t need much input from me to keep prattling on.

“You know, I’ve always thought you were hot as hell,” he says, burping to punctuate his attempt at a compliment. “Real fuckin’ smokeshow. Girl like you needs a guy like me. Self-made businessman, you know? A go-getter. And I’m pretty good in the sack, too.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. It’s at least the dozenth time tonight he’s mentioned how “self-made” he is. Although I’m pretty sure he inherited the hardware store from his dad.

Before I can figure out how to wriggle my way out of this particular conversational impasse, Reggie looks up and snaps his fingers for the waiter. When no one notices him in the zero-point-two seconds he’s willing to wait, he raises his hand to his lip and whistles.

“Hey!” I hiss, mortified at his behavior. “You can’t whistle.”

He looks positively dumbfounded that I seem to have a problem with it. “Why?”

“It’s rude!”

“Rude?” Reggie repeats, as though I’m speaking a foreign language. “Nah, babe, it’s friendly. You just aren’t used to guys taking you to nice places like this.”

I slink down in my seat, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Maybe if I scrunch my eyes closed really hard, I’ll turn invisible. Worth a shot, at least.

“You can clear our plates, hon,” Reggie orders the waiter when she comes to our tableside. “And get us the dessert menus.”

“Actually, that’s not necessary,” I say quickly, giving the waiter an apologetic smile. Please don’t hate me, I’m saying to her with my eyes. I want this to be over just as badly as you do. “Just the bill, please.”

“What?” Reggie asks. “C’mon, party’s just getting started!”

“I’m tired,” I explain with rapidly waning patience. “And I’m too stuffed to have dessert.”

He glances at his watch. “It’s only eleven,” he says. “Fine, forget the dessert menus then. Bring us another round of drinks.”

The waiter nods and makes her escape from the dreaded Reggie Zone before I can protest. I cringe at the prospect of spending another half an hour in this man’s company.

“Hey, I’m gonna go hit the can, okay?” He burps again. “Don’t think that steak sat right with me.”

I give him a wooden nod. The moment he clears the table, I sigh with relief and whip out my phone to dial Brianna’s number.

She answers immediately. “Hey, sis, how’s the date going?”

“I am going to kill you!”

“Woah there, hold your horses. What happened?”

“He’s dull and boring and boorish and I’m going to end it all with the butter knife if I have to spend another minute stuck here with him.”

Brianna giggles out loud. “You’re not using words like ‘boorish’ on him, are you?”

“We have nothing in common, Bree.”

“Opposites attract.”

“The physics of magnetism aside, I beg to disagree.”

Brianna groans. “You’re not even giving him a chance. When was the last time you were attracted to any man?”

The question feels unfair, especially given the very real and very visceral reaction I’d just had to the man in the booth. Not that I’m about to admit to Brianna that I was just eye-fucking some smug Wall Street douche in a pricey suit. She’d never let me hear the end of it.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you treat men like an invasive species.”

“With good reason! Having a man in your life isn’t everything, you know.”

“Life is not Little Women, Cami,” says Brianna with a long-suffering sigh. “You don’t have to get all Jo March idealist on me. I’m not saying Reggie is your fairytale prince, but at least he’s… I dunno, call it ‘practice.’”